


Reaching Up

by orphan_account



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, Humour, I loved every second I spent writing this, M/M, Piano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 08:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10213541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Dan thinks he's an awful pianist. Little does he know, he has an admirer right outside his door.Literally.





	

**Author's Note:**

> To Dan  
> from one dilettante pianist to another,  
> I understand

                E D# E D# E B D C… ” _FUCK_ ”

                Dan’s hands must have transformed into crab claws during his sleep, he reckons. It’s the only logical explanation for him sounding this fucking awful.

                He can’t get the rhythm right. At all. He’s been listening to Fur Elise on repeat for about 45 minutes, trying to figure it out. He can’t. (He never learned how to read sheet music, and he doesn’t even know how to _spell_ metronome, okay? Leave him alone.)

                He runs through his warm-up song for the 3rd time today, and as soon as the blissful notes of Yorke’s Ingenue finish, he tries to segue right into Fur Elise.

                E D# E D# E B D C A

                C E A B

                E G# B… “ _FUUUUUCK_ ”

                He shuts the piano, resting his weary head on the lid for a few minutes. His pulse echoes through the wood, and he thinks he can hear his breath play on the strings. He curses his stiff, stubby fingers, and lifts himself from the seat.

                “Fuck this,” he mumbles, and crawls into bed.

                Before he falls asleep, he thinks he hears someone go ‘hmm’ from outside.

                -

                “Hmm,” says Phil through a mouthful of popcorn, “maybe he’s not on good form today?”

                Phil’s sat outside the door of his favourite local pianist. 5PM sharp, every day, except Saturdays and Sundays. He sorts out his schedule around this sacred 5PM. He recently turned down a job because their hours wouldn’t accommodate his (near) daily entertainment.

                He’d sank into his favourite piano-listening beanbag and prepared some microwave popcorn for tonight. Though it seems likely that he won’t be getting a decent concert. Shame. It’s sweet and salty popcorn. His favourite.

                All of the neighbours are giving him weird looks, as if he doesn’t do this every day. On the plus side, no-one’s phoned the police yet. They’re all too scared. Not after what happened that night... but that’s a story for later. Much later.

                Phil sighs, finishes his popcorn and lugs his beanbag to his own flat. Till tomorrow, beautiful anonymous piano man. Till tomorrow.

                -

                Dan’s doing better today. His hands have stopped morphing into crab claws and are regaining some of their fluidity.  He breezes through Fur Elise and Moonlight Sonata. It’s a good time to start the other song he wants to learn, he thinks. It’s a simple song, one he could learn by ear, he thinks.

                He scrolls through his iPod till he find’s Radiohead’s _Videotape_. Soon his headphones are filled with the sound of Thom Yorke’s sweet, sexy voice. He… he thinks it starts with an A? And the chord is a C#? He presses both keys tentatively.

                Yes! That’s it.

                After a good 20 minutes, he thinks he has the full song down. When he runs through the entire thing, he starts subconsciously singing along.

                _When I’m at the pearly gates…_

_This’ll be on my videotape…_

                Outside, Phil is in tears. His angel, his golden seraph, his tiny messenger who strums a Steinway instead of a harp! He can sing! Not only that, he can sing somewhat decently! His head is thrown back, and he’s bawling now. He can feel his neighbour’s concerned and judgemental eyes on him. He doesn’t care!

                He doesn’t even wait for the end of the song. He walks back to his own flat, sobbing and throwing the rose petals he brought with him.

                Dan finishes the song. For a few moments, all he can hear is the reverb of the piano. Then…

                “BRAVO! BRAVO!” someone’s half-screaming, half-crying from outside. The voice slowly moves away from Dan’s peripheral audio range. What the fuck.

                He makes way to his front door. Maybe all those times he thought he heard talking from outside his door, applauding, popcorn crunching… maybe he wasn’t just paranoid? Dan was determined to find out the truth.

                When he opens up his door…

                “What the fuck?”

                For starters, there’s a beanbag. A bright green beanbag that’s recently been sat on, by the looks of it. Dan kneels down and touches it. Yep, still warm. Dan realises he’s indirectly touched someone’s ass, and withdraws his hand immediately.

                And… standing up, he’s crunched a popcorn kernel under his foot. There’s popcorn all about the fucking place. Some of it’s rolled under his door and into the corridor. How has he never noticed that before? Most absurdly, there’s rose petals. Rose petals everywhere. They start from his door and lead a trail round the corner… Dan’s tempted to follow it. But he thinks better of it. He’s only 26, he doesn’t want to die.

                When he lifts his head from the carnage, he notices a bunch of the neighbours looking at him worriedly. What did they know? Why had no-one spoke to him of this before?

                He slams the door. Someone else can clean it up.

                When he closes the door, a neighbour picks up the phone. Dan needs help from this man, they think. They contemplate the keypad for a moment. They press in 9… 9… then they stop.

                Putting the receiver down, they think to themselves: ‘no-one wants a replay of what happened last time. No-one.’

                -

                Dan watches the clock. It’s 4:43. It feels like it’s taking forever to reach 5PM. Maybe that’s because he’s watching the clock.

                He drums his fingers on the kitchen counter for a few minutes. Then he meticulously peels a banana and eats it. He watches a Britney Spears music video on his phone. Then he admires and rearranges his movie collection. He begins to bite his fingernails.

                4:52. Oh fuck it, he might as well start.

                He goes to his bedroom and sits at the piano. When he lifts the lid, he decides he’ll play Videotape again. He doesn’t sing along, too focused on getting the tempo right.

                Before he knows it, it’s 5:00 and he’s done two runs of the songs. He makes his move.

                He raises himself and stands on tip-toe. Slowly, _slowly_ , he makes his way down the corridor. Why is he on tip-toe? He’s not quite sure. But it sure does its job at ramping up the tension, his heart thumping like a drum against his chest.

                He makes it to the door. Gradually. Inch by inch, he opens it.

                When he opens it…

                Sitting on the floor, there’s a man with half a hand of popcorn in his mouth. He looks alarmed. Then, in a second, he springs up from the beanbag, popcorn flying out his orifices.

                “My angel! My seraph! Light of my something!”

                Dan is dumbfounded. It takes a while before it clicks.

                “Wait… are you that guy who once put his underwear on his head and started making firetruck noises because someone threatened to phone the police on them?”

                “Hey, that’s not all I’ve done!” Phil says, indignant, “I once made vegan cupcakes for everyone.”

                “Oh yeah,” a vague recollection comes to Dan’s mind, “they were pretty decent.”

                Phil beams, and Dan shakes his head at himself. He’s forgetting why he’s doing this.

                “Phil… the name’s Phil, yeah?” The other man nods. “What the hell are you doing outside my flat?”

                Phil smiles even harder, as if that’s possible. “Oh! I love listening to your playing! I come out here every day and listen to you… I love that warm-up song you do… is it Radiohead? I-“

                “Thom Yorke,” Dan corrects.

                “Yeah, close enough! And I love the way you get angry and swear when you mess up, even though I don’t think you sound bad at all, but it’s cute nonetheless, and I-“

                “Phil!”

                The other man quietens. Dan might as well ask the poor sod. He’s obviously here for a reason.

                “Phil, would you like a private concert? A personal one?”

                It seems like the words take a few seconds to register, and Phil’s ears flush pink when they do. Dan smiles at that.

                “W-what… do you… uh?”

                “A private concert. In my bedroom. Get close and personal with the artist himself. Yeah?”

                Dan’s gradually makes his way towards the other man, and both their cheeks are beetroot.

                Dan has no time to waste. He takes in the observing, judgemental neighbours. Fuck them, he thinks. They didn’t have the decency to tell him that there was a beautiful, oddball admirer outside his flat.

He turns to Phil. He pecks him. On the lips. Softly. A gasp comes from some of the flats.

                “O… oh.”

                A few more seconds lapse.

                “I… I mean, yes! Y-yes! Yes I’d… I’d…” his voice turns to a whisper, “I’d like that.”

                “Thought you would. Come inside?”

                And he does.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoyed reading this half as much as I enjoyed writing it, troops.


End file.
